


Beyond the Pale

by Sheila_Snow



Series: Shades of Twilight [2]
Category: James Asher Vampire Series - Barbara Hambly
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Protectiveness, Soul Bond, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheila_Snow/pseuds/Sheila_Snow
Summary: Now James Asher knew what the ancient mariners must have felt when they approached the finite edge of their world . . . and then discovered somethingbeyondit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyrstzha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/gifts).



> IMPORTANT - PLEASE READ:
> 
> This is a direct sequel to [Shades of Twilight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/143743). As such, this fic won't make _any_ sense unless you've read that work first. This is also A/U after the events of the first book, and while I've used some events depicted in the later books, the timeline of those events will be somewhat different.
> 
> A thousand thanks to the incredible last-minute beta by Morbane. Any mistakes remaining are my own, since I had to keep tinkering with it.

> "It is not these well-fed long-haired men that I fear, but the pale and the hungry-looking."  
>  Julius Caesar

 

Dr. Lydia Asher walked quickly down the platform of Oxford's Great Western station. Most of the passengers had already boarded the last train to London, so she was practically alone, her heels sounding preternaturally loud in the bitter stillness of the night. For once, Oxford's pernicious fog had not deigned to make an appearance, for which she was grateful. However, the regular billowing of steam and smoke from the idling locomotive attempted to fill the cavernous trainshed with its own pale, acrid imitation.

Without the use of her hated spectacles, Lydia had the impression that the two white-painted oil lamps on the front of the locomotive were winking at her through the regular purges of steam, so she hurried past the engine toward the center of the express train, knowing she'd need as few obstructions as possible to her extremely limited vision.

Once she had passed the worst of the obscuring steam and smoke, she stopped and looked around, searching for someone she had hoped would make an appearance this night. 

No. Not someone. Some _thing_ , she reminded herself firmly. Regardless of the fact that he'd treated her civilly the one and only time they'd met, he didn't merit any appellation of humanity, not after what he'd done to Jamie.

Lydia tapped her foot impatiently. Drat it all. After discovering that her husband wouldn't be able to accompany her this evening, she'd been certain _he_ would appear. She didn't believe in coincidences, and the timing of Jamie's sudden inability to leave their house was too convenient, especially since this was the first time in months she'd been alone after sunset. If he'd merely wished to speak to _Jamie_ alone, he'd need only wait until she had departed for London.

Jamie had explained how it was next to impossible for a mortal to find a vampire. "You have to let them find _you_ ," he'd said, and this was the first chance she'd had to contact the vampire since she'd learned of Jamie's malady. 

However, she had 'promenaded' herself the entire length of the train platform twice now without success. At this point, all she could do was wait.

But she _needed_ to speak to him, and if Jamie was correct in his suspicion that Don Simon was now residing in Oxford, this would be her last opportunity for weeks. 

The vampire was certain to be aware of that as well.

For this reason, she'd been so confident of his appearance that she'd left her maid behind on the train so she could facilitate just such a meeting. It hadn't been easy. Ellen had always been the soul of propriety, and it had taken heroic measures on Lydia's part to convince her to wait for her in their compartment.

She had a few minutes left before she absolutely had to board, and she again cursed the timing of her cousin Emily's presentation. After Emily's mother had developed sciatica, Lydia's presence had been requested as a chaperone, but she had an infinitely more important task here in Oxford. Sometimes she despised the obligations of high society that made such requirements on her time, but then, if she hadn't grown up amongst privilege, it would have been nearly impossible to attain a medical degree at all.

And thus acquire the medical _knowledge_ that had recently become of such dire importance.

Sighing, Lydia realized she couldn't wait any longer. She turned, preparing to head back to her carriage, and nearly collided with the silent form of Don Simon Ysidro, who was standing by her side as if he'd been there for hours and she had somehow, impossibly, failed to notice his presence.

She inhaled sharply, bringing one hand to her chest, and she had to employ all her formidable deportment skills to prevent herself from crying out. She would not give him that satisfaction. Jamie had told her what to expect, of course, but as with her medical experiments, the practical experience was distinctly different from any expectations derived from academic knowledge alone.

He waited politely for her to catch her breath, then said, "You wished to speak to me, Mistress Asher?" 

She stood as tall as she could and said, "Yes, I did." She had to practically bite her tongue to forestall the 'thank you for coming' that polite society required, but she was not feeling the least bit courteous.

The vampire bowed his head slightly. "Then, I am at your service."

Even with her anxiety regarding Jamie's condition and her antagonism toward the vampire who had caused it, she still found it fascinating that his breath didn't crystallize in the air as hers did when he spoke. 

But then, she only had to think of Jamie in a similar state, and suddenly it wasn't fascinating at all.

Lydia said, "If you are truly 'at my service,' then you will kindly leave my husband alone."

Anything that wasn't directly in front of her face was painfully indistinct, but he stood close enough that she noted his head tilting ever so slightly. Otherwise, he stood so still he might have been some ancient Greek alabaster statue come ever so fleetingly to life.

"Mistress, surely you must be aware I've not approached your husband since we last met in London, many months ago."

She eyed him belligerently. "Please do not mince words with me, Don Simon. Unless there is some _other_ reason my husband finds himself physically unable to leave Oxford?"

The vampire did not move so much as an eyebrow, but Lydia still had the impression that he was both surprised . . . and pleased?

"I could not be certain that the directive would hold given his mortal state, but be assured that it was for his own safety."

The thought that Jamie was forced to obey this vampire, or any vampire, caused her to nearly shake with impotent rage.

"What gives you the right?" she said tightly, attempting to keep her rampaging emotions in check. "Jamie tries to hide his fears from me, but he avoids silver as if it carries the plague, and he hesitates at the threshold every time he leaves the house while the sun is in the sky. Yet in all other ways, he is still mortal. What makes you so certain you even _know_ what is 'safe' for him?" She lifted her chin, feeling her eyes sting with tears that she refused to shed. "He would never have willingly chosen to become one of you, Don Simon. Your world is _not_ his."

He turned his head slightly, as if listening to something she could never hope to hear. She wondered if he were listening for her husband — if he were following his thoughts as a curious child followed the flight of an errant butterfly. 

After what seemed an age, but was surely only a few moments, he said, "My world will almost certainly be his someday, mistress. Perhaps long after your own death from the ravages of age, but it will be." He focused his intense gaze upon her once more. "And thus, I dare not leave him alone, nor allow him to be unprepared for what surely is to come."

She closed her eyes briefly, hating the absolute conviction she heard in the vampire's soft voice. "And if I request that you leave him to the mortal world until such a time?" She paused. "I _refuse_ to believe his fate is preordained, and thus he may never require your . . . instruction."

He was silent for long enough that the low-pitched whistle from the waiting train caused her to startle slightly. 

Don Simon looked at her gravely. "Tell me this, mistress. If a fox gives birth to two cubs, neither of which survived to adulthood, would the vixen then neglect to teach her next litter what they needed to survive, assuming they too would not live to require that instruction?"

Lydia gasped. She couldn't help it. The misery of her miscarriage now months past still seemed to cling to her like the heavy drape of a funeral pall.

Simon's eyes widened, and he said quickly, "I am truly sorry, mistress. That was beyond thoughtless on my part." He bowed his head. " _Perdón._ "

"How did you . . .?"

"I feel James' emotions as if they were my own. His joy and anticipation followed so abruptly by his pain and despair for both you and another could only mean one thing." He bowed his head again. "My sincerest apologies, mistress, and my condolences for your loss."

Perhaps it was merely the _noblesse oblige_ of the aristocrat whom he once was, but despite the near toneless quality of his speech, she could somehow feel the genuine sincerity behind his words. 

She was still shaking inside, and she did not trust her voice to remain steady enough to berate him further. However, she had caught at least a glimpse of why her husband had, reluctantly, come to respect this man.

Or, at least, the man he had once been — 350 years and thousands of murdered lives ago.

Firming her resolve, she said, "I will continue to research James' condition. If I can find a medical remedy, I will use it."

Simon inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement. "If you _can_ find a remedy for his condition, I will be the first to offer you my congratulations . . . and my thanks."

Lydia simply stared at him, assuming she must have somehow misinterpreted his words.

"You must understand, mistress. I will never regret my attempt to save your husband's life. Even though I was prepared to accept his death if he refused my offer of immortality, I nevertheless prayed with all my soul that he would consent to it."

He looked past her shoulder as he spoke, not at her face, and in a mortal man this would have been a sign of extreme discomfort. She didn't know what it portended for a vampire of his age and immense power. However, if it _was_ a sign of discomfort, then its cause must be something beyond the pale to affect him so perceptibly.

"But I find I have unwittingly placed James in a peril the likes of which he has never faced before." Locking gazes with her again, he added, "And I fear I will be unable to protect him from the consequences of my own imprudence."

*****************************************

James Asher awoke to find Don Simon Ysidro sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed. 

Once he'd discovered he was physically unable to leave his house, Asher had been expecting just such a visitation from the only being capable of controlling his actions in such a manner. He'd therefore left the oil lamp lit and hadn't removed his dressing gown, but he _hadn't_ intended to fall asleep and wondered if he'd had some assistance with that.

Simon tilted his head like a curious bird. "You are vexed with me."

Asher pushed himself up until he was sitting against the headboard and said, "Perhaps it isn't customary to speak ill of the dead, but is there any _other_ reason I shouldn't be vexed with you?" He indicated his current position with a wave of his hand. "Once I realized I was unable to pass the boundary of our property, I had to pretend illness to the servants to explain why I wasn't accompanying Lydia to the train station."

"Why need you explain anything to servants?"

"Because servants talk, Simon, and they've already seen enough strangeness in our household, thanks to your previous visitation here. I didn't want to supply them with anything more." He sighed. "At least, not until it becomes unavoidable. They would have definitely wondered why I wasn't escorting Lydia."

Simon raised a disdainful eyebrow, his reaction a relic from a bygone age where servants were seen and most definitely _not_ heard. 

Although mildly amused by this, Asher narrowed his eyes slightly and said, "Just as they would _definitely_ talk if they knew I were entertaining a strange man in my bedroom."

He'd meant the comment as a jest, hoping to startle an unthinking confidence from the infuriatingly reticent vampire, but instead Simon merely stared at Asher intently. 

Eventually, Simon said, "You need have no fear of that, James, as I have made certain your servants would remain asleep."

Feeling his eyebrows lift at the incongruously solemn reply, Asher nonetheless didn't pursue the matter further. They had far more important issues to discuss, after all. 

He therefore stared hard into the amber eyes of the vampire perched so familiarly on his bed and said, " _Why_ have I been unable to leave Oxford, Simon?" Crossing his arms, he added, "Actually, as if that weren't enough, why am I suddenly unable to leave my own bloody _house_?"

After long experience with Don Simon Ysidro, Asher recognized the calculations running through the vampire's eyes as to how much information he should impart, and when, but he was vexed enough with Simon that he wouldn't allow the evasion this time.

Asher glared at him. "You told me at our last meeting that I had the right to contact you now, but that means absolutely nothing if I'm unable to obtain information from you when you're sitting right in front of me."

Simon closed his eyes and said softly, "I am sorry, James. The habits of centuries are indeed difficult to dispel." He reopened his eyes and added, "The limitations on leaving your abode have now been lifted, but I had intended that particular restriction for this night only, regardless."

"Why?"

"Because of your lady wife. Due to her proximity to you, I occasionally sense her dreams as well." He hesitated, then continued, "And since dreams often reflect subconscious desires, I became aware of her wish to speak to me . . . alone."

Asher was shocked at Lydia's audacity at confronting a vampire in person, but then realized he should have _expected_ her to do just that. She'd been horrified when Asher had informed her of his dire proximity to the Undead condition, and of course she'd decided to take matters into her own hands to protect him. Her courage and strength of will were two of the traits that had originally attracted him to her in the first place.

"She is indeed an exceptional woman," Simon said, as if he'd been following Asher's thoughts, and Asher realized with a start that he might have been doing exactly that. He had no idea how extensive the vampire's psychic abilities were, nor how much they had been strengthened through their unexpected and apparently unique bond.

"No, James, I cannot read your thoughts, but your emotions are as distinct as the spoken word to me."

Asher nodded his head, appreciating Simon's consideration, as he knew a vampire rarely felt the need to provide reassurance to a mere mortal. "What did Lydia want to speak to you about?"

"She wished me to know she was . . . displeased with my previous actions on your behalf." There was a ghost of a smile on his face before it returned to its usual impassivity. "And that she intended to find a cure for your affliction."

"I'm not surprised, considering she's converted one of the anterooms into a makeshift laboratory and has spent an inordinate amount of time there since I came back from London." 

Asher looked over at the vampire, seated with his usual perfect posture but still seeming oddly ill at ease in Asher's presence. For some unfathomable reason, this saddened him. He hadn't realized he'd come to rely on their intense camaraderie that had engendered a feeling of relative safety, if not quite comfort, in the vampire's presence. 

Sighing, Asher said, "I'm amazed she didn't ask for a sample of your blood, as she has mine, on numerous occasions."

"If she had, I would have granted her request, and gladly."

Asher felt his eyes widen. "Considering the consequences of Horace Blaydon's experiments with a vampire's blood, I thought that would be the _last_ thing you'd agree to, regardless of the source." 

Although Simon never made unnecessary movements, he seemed to abruptly stiffen into near immobility, and Asher's breath correspondingly quickened in response. He knew what that abrupt motionlessness inferred, as he had encountered it once before.

Many months ago, when Simon had reluctantly told him that he'd had, for all intents and purposes, made Asher his fledgling. 

What could have possibly distressed the vampire enough to cause a similar reaction now?

"Why have you not allowed me to leave Oxford, Simon?"

"Because there are no vampires currently residing in Oxford." He paused, then added somewhat ruefully, "Other than myself, of course."

So. After Simon's obvious concern for Asher's safety he'd demonstrated at their last meeting, Asher had wondered if Simon had taken up permanent residence in this tranquil college town. He had somehow known that the vampire was nearby, even if he'd never actually seen him. But then, if a vampire of Simon's age and power didn't wish to be seen, he wasn't. It was part of what made them so exceedingly dangerous to humankind.

But it was also dangerous for a _vampire_ to reside in such a relatively small town as Oxford. Unlike overpopulated London, this town was small enough that unexpected deaths _would_ be noticed, and this was a risk that a cautious vampire like Simon would never take. He surely must have gone elsewhere to feed, which was in itself a perilous undertaking for a vampire.

Thus, it made absolutely _no_ sense why Simon would intentionally restrict Asher, and thereby himself, to the confines of Oxford. "Why, Simon?" he asked again.

The vampire gazed at him expressionlessly for a few moments, then said, "I have never told you why I selected you as my human aide when the vampires of London were being slaughtered."

Familiar now with Simon's indirect replies to a question, Asher said patiently, "You told me you'd remembered a discussion about those who 'did good work' and chose me based on that recommendation." 

Simon nodded, the slight motion wafting his fine, bleached hair forward to frame his face. "There were few suitable candidates, given the complexity of the situation. However, when you finally approached close enough for me to sense your psychic presence, I told myself I would be a fool to allow one such as you to ever know of our existence."

Asher said, "I thought as much myself actually, given my prior research on the supernatural. If anyone were prone to believing in the existence of vampires, and the importance of destroying them, it would be me. You took a great risk."

"That was not the reason for my reticence." Again, the vampire seemed to hesitate, and when he finally spoke, it was slowly, evidently choosing his words carefully. "On the train to London, the first night we met, you accomplished something I had never expected from a human, especially after such a short exposure to our abilities." He paused again, and Asher raised an inquiring eyebrow in encouragement. "You blocked my control of your mind when you escorted that . . . woman out of our compartment."

"I had thought you were merely making a point and had only _allowed_ me do so."

The faintest of smiles again. "Even so. But the fact that you had managed to oppose my control at all surprised me in a manner I had not experienced since I breathed my last as a mortal." 

"I don't understand," Asher said, shaking his head.

Simon made a sound that might have been a sigh in a human. "It is difficult to explain. I have been a vampire for a long time, and our powers increase the longer we remain in this state. Therefore, one becomes complacent at the extreme ease of controlling a mortal's mind. But even back then, you were . . ." he paused again, " _compelling_ in a manner that is difficult for a non-vampire to comprehend." 

Asher narrowed his eyes in confusion. "I strongly doubt that 'compelling' applied to every vampire's opinion of me, considering how the Paris vampires and Grippen tried their damnedest to kill me."

"In actuality, it only proves my point. It did not require the entire nest to kill a mere mortal, yet they all clamored eagerly to participate. In fact, it was only their interference with each other that allowed me to remove you from their grasp long enough for Brother Anthony to carry you to safety."

Uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, and unable to remain seated any longer, Asher rose from the bed and stood silently by the window, gazing out at the impenetrable darkness beyond.

He didn't even hear Simon rise from the bed as well, but the lightly accented voice was directly behind him when Simon spoke again. "The psychic presence of humans varies to a great degree, depending on the mortal's strength of will. However, you have always possessed a somewhat mesmerizing psychic presence, as alluring as the mythical siren's call." He paused. "I have told you before that it is the psychic energy that feeds our abilities more than blood. Therefore, the choice of feeding on one such as you over a normal human would be like . . . your own preference for a lavish ten-course meal over a bit of stale bread."

"How very flattering," Asher said dryly. 

He contemplated his unconcern at having such a dangerous predator at his unprotected back and idly wondered at what point this had happened, especially given his past experiences as an agent that had taught him never to take unnecessary risks. 

As he considered Simon's words, however, Asher was struck by something else that made him very curious indeed. "You said, 'even back then.'" He turned to face the vampire. "Am I to assume something has changed since that time?" 

"Yes," Simon said flatly. "Your psychic presence has grown since my first encounter with you. In fact, it has increased to such a degree that you practically glow like the Great Fire to one of my kind." He shook his head slightly. "It should not be even remotely possible since you are a blood maiden, even if you were not still implicitly mortal."

"'Blood maiden'?"

"A fledgling who has not yet made a human kill. Their psychic presence is nearly as dim as that of a human until that time."

Knowing Simon's extreme overprotectiveness of him, Asher now understood why Simon had required him to remain in Oxford. And why he had shifted his residence here as well. "You're saying my psychic presence is more like that of a 'blooded' vampire than a human's."

"Yes," Simon said. "I had thought at first your almost overwhelming presence in my mind was merely due to my connection to you. A master vampire is inordinately possessive and mindful of their fledglings, you see, especially when he is . . ." He paused briefly, then finished, "Especially when the master has created a fledgling for reasons other than a desire for property or some other inconsequential gain."

There was something Simon was not telling him, but then, that was often the case. Asher looked down into the eyes of this small, slight man with the ability to tear him in half as easily as Asher would tear a piece of cloth, and he wondered again at the intricacies of Fate that had brought them together, and the subsequent events that seemed determined to _keep_ them together.

Bowing his head, Asher sighed, knowing nothing good could come of this new revelation.

Simon reached out to grip his shoulder, and Asher was startled into raising his eyes. The vampire touched him so seldom, and then generally only for the expedience of guiding him through some temporary veil of darkness. 

"I am sorry, James," he said, his grip tightening slightly as if for reassurance. "I seem destined to cause you nothing but distress, but this was never my intention." The amber eyes normally reflected only the light, like a cat's, but this time Asher was certain he could discern contriteness within their depths. "You already know that many vampires covet the forbidden fruit of the psychic essence of another vampire, as Dennis Blaydon did, because the strength of a human's mind pales to that of a vampire's."

"Yet I am still mortal."

Simon nodded. "Yet you are still mortal, and thus you have become an almost irresistible temptation to those who hunt the night."


	2. Chapter 2

"This will do absolutely no good, Simon."

The vampire walking silently by his side glanced up at him and said, "How do you know this to be true if you do not even try?"

Asher looked down at him sternly. "Because even if I'm capable of accomplishing it, I will _not_ use it to help me kill another human being."

Simon raised an eyebrow at him, which was a major display of emotion for the vampire. "In your work for your government, I am certain you never intended to use your skills for such a thing either, but still, you _have_ killed."

Remembering the young earnest face of Jan van der Platz, Asher could not argue with that. He had killed many, many times, and only rarely had it been in self-defense. 

No, it had generally been at the behest of 'King and country.' At best, he could be utterly pretentious and tell himself it was for the 'good of mankind.' However, should he _truly_ become a vampire, he could hardly give _that_ as a reason anymore.

"Besides," Simon continued, as he guided Asher over the tram tracks in a relatively dark section of the busy street, "it is not _mortal_ eyes I intend you to deflect." 

As they reached the pavement on the other side of Cowley Road with its accompanying streetlamps, the lighting was marginally better, although the darkness of the moonless night still seemed to descend upon the town like a shroud. 

Evidently, his _eyes_ had not yet mutated to those of a vampire's, Asher thought ruefully.

They walked down the pavement in the direction of Magdalen College. At this time of night, the street was still teeming with local residents on a variety of errands as well as groups of loud, boisterous students, dismissed at last from the reproachful eyes of disapproving dons. 

"It may be possible for _you_ to deflect the attention of another vampire, Simon, but you have a few centuries of practice on me."

He thought he caught a faint sparkle of amusement in the vampire's eyes as they passed the flickering light of a streetlamp. "And here I thought my success was merely due to a thoroughly unmemorable visage," he said.

Shaking his head, Asher said, "I could _never_ describe you as 'unmemorable', Simon. Even under the threat of a virtually eternal life, I would remember you to my dying day, and beyond."

Simon seemed to either falter or take a misstep, and either event was so out of the ordinary for the impossibly graceful vampire that Asher turned to him in mild alarm. "Are you all right, Simon?"

The vampire merely stared intently at him for a few moments. "I am . . . fine, James." He guided Asher toward the side of the pavement, next to a shuttered tailor's shop and out of the way of passersby. He appeared to take a moment to collect himself, again an unusual occurrence, but he waved off Asher's further query of concern.

"Are you ready to begin?" the vampire asked firmly.

Asher debated pushing the issue further, but he knew he'd get nowhere. What's more, he'd risk Simon retreating even further into himself, as was his usual wont when he accidentally revealed too much of what he considered the human failing of emotion. Sighing in defeat, Asher said, "I still think this is a waste of time, but yes." He looked at the vampire and added, "What _exactly_ am I supposed to do?"

"I have watched you 'disappear' in a crowd before, James. Very few mortals give you even a passing glance. How do you accomplish this?"

Asher glanced upward, trying to put into words what he did as a matter of course. "It's a combination of attitude, appearance and mien, I suppose. You disappear into a crowd by simply blending into it. You become . . . a single unobtrusive part of the general whole." He smiled. "People will easily ignore an individual tree and see only the immensity of the surrounding forest instead."

Simon nodded. "That is how a vampire's power works as well, only we do it by _projecting_ this perception to those around us." He paused, his eyes going momentarily distant. "When my master Rhys was instructing me, he would sometimes allow me inside his mind and _see_ how he accomplished a certain task."

Asher started. "Is that something all master vampires do? I imagine it would require a great deal of trust on the master's part."

Simon eyed him closely. "On the parts of both, perforce. But no, it is not a common practice, as that trust rarely exists between master and fledgling, for all their enforced closeness."

 _Trust._

As an agent for the Foreign Office, Asher had learned firsthand the dangers of trusting too easily. And this pale hidalgo from the court of a long dead Spanish king had in turn blackmailed him, threatened his wife, endangered his life many times over, and then nearly converted him into a creature that devoured human lives in a manner more relentless and remorseless than the plague. The very _last_ thing he should have inspired in Asher was trust. 

Some humans never developed that degree of trust in a lifetime. According to Simon, most vampires _never_ developed it, even given a score of lifetimes. 

Yet, he could not deny that he trusted this man, regardless.

Sighing, he said, "All right, Simon."

Again, that briefest of nods and the light grip of Simon's hand on his arm, as he walked them both toward the center of the pavement, directly into the path of curious pedestrians. "Relax your mind, think of nothing but me, and allow me inside."

Asher had always had _some_ sort of awareness of the vampire, at least when Simon had allowed it. He projected a formidable presence not unlike those of royal blood or the landed aristocracy — an impression that he was somehow larger than life, that he could fill a room with the force of his personality alone. 

But now, Asher definitely felt something more. Much more. He felt the vampire's infinite calm, his sense of purpose, and his sheer determination to continue existing in a world where the thinnest touch of sunlight would turn him to ash. He saw _eternity_ through the vampire's eyes — as if he were standing at the boundary between heaven and Earth and watching events glide ceaselessly past him like shadows of an endless dream. He felt the vampire's immense age, his bright, eager curiosity, his disdain for those beneath his station, his unbounded courage, and the inimitable will that allowed him to survive the unforgiving centuries, unchanging and unmoved. 

Then, he felt the vampire exert this phenomenal will on the mortals around him, and the men and women who had previously been eyeing them curiously suddenly began to veer silently around them without ever lifting their eyes to them, nor once looking back to determine what had caused them to alter their paths in the first place.

Asher's entire consciousness was so intensely intertwined with Simon's that he staggered and nearly fell when he was abruptly released from its overwhelming influence. 

The vampire reached out and steadied him effortlessly with both hands, barely seeming to put forth any effort.

An elderly man who had been approaching stopped suddenly, removed his spectacles and cleaned them on his coat before continuing past them with a suspicious gaze.

However, Simon was focused solely on Asher and ignored the mystified man completely. "James?" Simon said, stepping closer until their bodies nearly touched, the concern clearly apparent in his voice. "Are you well?"

Blinking owlishly, Asher said, "I can honestly say I'm not entirely sure." He looked down at the vampire with wide eyes. "You expect me to do _that?_ "

The vampire gave him one of his rare half-smiles. "I expect you to do something similar, _si,_ " he replied drily. "I am quite certain you are capable of this, James. Think on what you normally do as an agent to avoid unwanted attention, then _project_ this with your mind."

If someone had told Asher a year ago that it was possible for _anyone_ to accomplish such a thing, he would have been extremely skeptical, regardless of his experiences and research into such oddities abroad. Now, even knowing there truly _was_ more to heaven and earth than was dreamt of in his philosophy, he would never have even attempted it himself without this bastion of faith and certainty who stood so expectantly next to him.

Taking a deep breath, Asher allowed his vision to blur and concentrated hard on his successful forays to dangerous places in the past, remembering the feeling of harmless ineffectuality, projecting the impression of nonimportance, of relative invisibility, the sense that his presence was of no real consequence to anyone else's endeavors. 

After a third person bumped into him firmly with a surprised, muttered apology, Asher realized that while he had definitely achieved _something,_ it wasn't quite the effect he'd been hoping for. He fixed his gaze on Simon and shook his head ruefully.

The vampire's face was as ever impassive, but Asher caught the glint in the vampire's eyes and had the distinct impression Simon was pleased with this first attempt regardless. 

Simon urged him to continue walking, then said, "I did tell you were capable of succeeding at this task, did I not?"

"Well, I think 'succeeding' is a tad overgenerous." He glanced down at the vampire. "For example, I wouldn't consider attempting this during a cattle stampede, or I'd get us both trampled for sure."

Perhaps their recent mental connection had somehow strengthened their bond, but Asher could have sworn he heard Simon laugh, if only as a bright, quicksilver echo in the back of his mind. Regardless, there was no mistaking the amusement that danced in the vampire's glittering eyes.

"I shall endeavor never to place us in such a perilous situation then," Simon said solemnly. 

Asher smiled. "Luckily, Oxford doesn’t see a lot of stampedes . . . unless it's end of term, of course."

"I will keep that in mind," the vampire replied, again with that faint resonance of amusement. "You were actually quite close, James. You need only substitute the projection of 'You do not see me' with 'You do not _notice_ me.'" He brushed the hair back from his face as it was caught by an errant breeze. "It is a fine distinction, I know, but for your first attempt, it was actually quite impressive. But then, I expected no less."

They walked together in silence for a few minutes. When fellow staff members from the college and several of his students failed to greet him as they passed, Asher knew that Simon was once again effortlessly masking their presence. 

Thereby assured he wouldn't be overheard, Asher asked the question that had been burning inside his mind since the vampire's revelation last night. "Why am I able to do this at all, Simon? Does this mean I'm that much closer to becoming one of you?"

"I do not know, James," Simon said. His eyes flickered up briefly to meet his, then just as quickly looked away, but Asher didn't get the sense he was avoiding the question. "As I have said, we have always believed it to be the psychic energy of humans we have killed that gives us these powers. I know from personal experience that my abilities fade when I 'fast' for too long, so I have no reason to doubt this."

The vampire again went silent, and for some time all Asher heard was the quiet murmuring of the conversations of passersby, the tolling of a church bell from the imposing Gothic edifice of Wesley Hall, and a brief spate of raucous laughter that emerged from a crowded tavern as they passed.

Asher kept his peace, knowing somehow that the vampire had not finished with this particular subject. Perhaps he had indeed absorbed some of the timelessness of the vampire — the knowledge that everything would come to pass in its own time and that he need only wait out the endless centuries for this to be so.

When the vampire eventually spoke again, Asher realized that he'd actually been anticipating it, as if he'd heard the words before Simon began to speak. 

"You know I have never created a fledgling before, so my personal knowledge is limited, but I wonder . . ." Simon paused, and the spectral sense of a frustrated sigh again crossed Asher's mental perceptions. "I have conversed with many who _have_ created fledglings, and I know their mental control of their fledglings is both absolute and remorseless. The master of Dublin once explained how he built an imaginary paling within his mind, like the English Pale that walled off the part of Ireland under English control, to prevent his fledglings from accessing his knowledge or abilities."

Asher nodded. "Given Grippen's charming personality, I imagine this is exactly the same manner in which he treats his own get."

"You would imagine correctly," Simon replied, his distaste for the Master of London abundantly clear. "Lionel's fledglings were fortunate to have others to teach them what they needed to know, or they'd have not survived a decade. He has ever been a tyrant and jealous of his power as Master of London."

Simon paused again, still clearly thinking through the various ramifications of this, then he said cautiously, "But what if the master vampire did _not_ feel the necessity to control so absolutely? What if he did not guard his knowledge and power so jealously?" Simon looked over at Asher then, his face more open and intent than Asher had ever seen it. "Then, perhaps, his fledgling could utilize the master's vastly superior powers to supplement his own nascent abilities, especially when the fledgling was in particular need."

Asher stopped abruptly, stunned, and he turned to face the vampire directly. "But if a master does have that formidable instinct to control their fledglings at all cost, he'd be foolish to even _consider_ such a potentially dangerous prospect."

Simon nodded. "I concur. As I have said, such trust between a master and his fledgling is exceptionally rare, and it may very well be nonexistent, at least amongst the vampires of this modern age."

Beckoning a passing cab, Simon climbed inside, and without a word he helped a still somewhat dazed Asher into its interior. He gave the driver Asher's Holywell address through the trap and then sat back with a faint moue of distaste at that brief interaction. 

Bemused, Asher wondered if the former aristocrat would ever become accustomed to dealing with the _hoi polloi_ on a daily basis.

Simon did not continue their conversation until the cab had crossed Magdalen Bridge. "It has been more than two centuries since I have pondered this, James, but recent events have necessitated that I revisit what is an exceedingly painful memory for me." He sat ramrod straight against the leather seat and stared out over the withers of the trotting horse. "I had been a vampire for barely a hundred years when the Great Fire descended upon us, and I should never have survived its ravages nor its aftermath, not while nearly incapacitated by my exposure to sunlight as I was." 

He paused then, and for a moment Asher thought he had changed his mind about sharing this experience, but the vampire shook his head slightly and continued nonetheless. "You see, when a vampire is injured, our ability to affect the minds of mortals is significantly compromised, and I was gravely injured indeed."

Asher considered the vampire's previous reminiscences about his master Rhys, and he belatedly realized what the vampire was attempting to convey to him. "You believe your own master assisted you somehow, after the Fire." At Simon's nod, he added, "But wouldn't you have sensed his aid, or at least his mental presence?"

"Rhys the Minstrel was already old, very old, when I became his fledgling. By the time of the Great Fire, he could have masked his presence from me while standing directly by my side."

Simon then leaned forward slightly in the cab, this uncharacteristic movement a sure indication of his distress, and Asher had to strain to hear his whisper soft voice. 

"I sometimes imagined I could feel his ethereal presence in my mind during those dark times immediately after the Fire, but I feared it was merely like the fever dreams of plague victims, knowing not what was real or what was imagined." He paused again. "Yet, I survived when I surely should have perished amidst the chaos and strife that was London at that time."

"Simon . . ." Asher began, but the vampire had not finished.

"I believe that my master did indeed assist me during my time of need. There is, of course, no similar precedent for a 'fledgling' who has not completed the process to the Undead state, but I can determine no other reason why your psychic abilities exist, mortal and unblooded as you are." The vampire turned to face him again, and his eyes were bright with fiery promise. "But of this, I am certain, James. I feel you in my mind, _always_ , but unlike the other master vampires of my acquaintance, I have absolutely no desire to construct a paling against your presence there."

Asher found himself awash in a sea of emotions, and he didn't know which to concentrate on. Relief, at knowing his psychic abilities did not necessarily mean he was plunging further into the vampire state. Curiosity, that he might indeed be capable of things he had heretofore never even dreamt of doing. Warmth, at realizing just how much trust did exist for this most cautious of vampires to allow such a dangerous closeness between them.

Lost in these thoughts, it took him a few moments to notice that they'd arrived at his house and Simon had already paid the driver, before Asher belatedly followed Simon out of the cab.

As the driver cracked his whip and the cab rattled across the cobblestones into the night, Asher was surprised to note Simon walking calmly beside him toward his house. He'd been quite certain the vampire would disappear into the night as was his usual custom. 

He smiled down at him. "You needn't escort me to my door, Simon. As you have said, there are no vampires in Oxford, present company excluded, of course."

"Be that as it may, I am still responsible for your safety, especially now."

They had barely reached the front step, however, before Mrs. Grimes had flung open the door and exclaimed, "Thank the heavens, there you are, Professor Asher!"

Faintly alarmed, Asher said, "Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Grimes?"

The cook stepped aside to allow them across the threshold and glanced briefly at Simon, who was evidently _not_ concealing his presence from her, but then she said, "Well, that I don't know for sure, sir, but the messenger who brought this said it was urgent and that you should get it immediately." She wrung her hands miserably. "With your lady wife gone, I knew naught else to do but wait for your return."

She hesitantly handed him a telegram envelope, which Asher examined briefly out of habit to insure it had not been opened previously, but then he absentmindedly dismissed the anxious cook to return to her kitchen. He had a feeling this would not be something for a servant's eyes or ears.

And he was unfortunately correct.

The telegram was brief, but nonetheless disconcerting in its content.

> _Professor Asher,_
> 
> _You had best come at once. I fear Grippen has done something terrible._
> 
> _A_

*****************************************

Asher destroyed the telegram from Lady Ernchester, although he didn't know if she'd sent the letter _because_ of Grippen's actions, or at his behest. Regardless, she'd saved his life once before, and perhaps she was now attempting to save Lydia's as well. At least, he hoped this was the case. Like the lithe Spanish courtier at his side, she seemed to retain at least some semblance of her former honor even into the Undead state.

He lingered only long enough at the house to throw some items in a valise, including his silver letter opener, before he and Simon headed for the train station. He found he could easily tolerate the silver's presence, at least while it was enclosed in the lead-lined case he'd obtained from a metallurgist acquaintance. 

Asher still wasn't certain he'd be able to actually _wield_ it, but in an emergency, he would attempt it regardless. If something happened to Lydia, he wouldn't care if he himself died from contact to the silver that was so potentially lethal to the Undead.

Given Asher's obvious concern regarding Lydia's safety, Simon had not forced him to remain in Oxford while he went to confront Grippen alone, although he was clearly not pleased.

"It is _you_ Lionel is after, James," he had said, "and he would be a fool to harm your lady wife before he has what he wants."

Asher hadn't even bothered arguing with him, and Simon had finally acquiesced, although he had not left Asher out of his sight since boarding the train to London.

In fact, here in their private compartment, Simon sat closer to him than polite company would normally dictate, and Asher could easily discern his knife-edge readiness to explode into violent action should he detect a potential threat. The vampire was dangerous enough even without this recent overprotectiveness toward his 'fledgling'. 

While thankful that Simon seemed so determined to defend him, he wondered ruefully if he should have warned the carriage's attendant to stay well away from their compartment. 

Just in case.

Regardless, he could understand at least some of the vampire's concern, as he felt the same sort of worry and protective fury toward Lydia. How _dare_ Grippen threaten his wife? 

"Why is Grippen even doing this, Simon? And why now? If he'd wanted to kill me, he could have easily hired a human agent to do the job while I was here in Oxford without even going through the effort of travelling. There is no shortage of cutthroats and riff-raff to be found in the East Side who would be willing to do the deed."

Simon was silent long enough that Asher thought he wouldn't speak, but he finally said, "I do not think Lionel intends to _kill_ you, James, at least not in the manner you presume. He wants you for something else."

"Then why kidnap Lydia, Simon? Blackmail? Surely there isn't another threat to the London nest that he requires a mortal's assistance in combatting." 

The vampire glanced over at Asher with heavy-lidded eyes. "After most of his fledglings were destroyed by the Blaydons, Lionel made some rather . . . regrettable choices in begetting replacements."

Asher looked at him incredulously. "If they're his own get, surely he can control them through his domination as their master. He's the same age as you. How could that possibly be an issue for him?"

"You misunderstand me, James. His recent fledglings are indeed reckless, but he is more than powerful enough to contain their foolishness. However, I believe he has realized he requires another fledgling who, like Anthea Ernchester, is of a more stable mien and who also has a significant psychic presence already, even as a mortal." He eyed Asher significantly. "This particular fledgling's power would eventually be quite substantial, yet he would still be under the master vampire's thrall, which would only increase Lionel's standing and thereby his safety."

Asher stared at him, dumbfounded. "Grippen can't _possibly_ be stupid enough to assume I'd agree to become his fledgling."

"In his eyes, James, you have _already_ consented to the process, as your current 'twilight' state of transformation would attest." He folded his hands demurely in his lap, but Asher noted how his fingertips made impressions in the back of his other hand, they gripped so very tightly. "I am quite certain he assumes I mishandled the process of making you my fledgling . . . and that he would easily succeed where I had 'failed.'"

"Over my dead body."

"I fear that would be the end result, yes," Simon said, staring up at him intently. "He will attempt to force the change, James, and you will die a mortal's permanent death in refusing him. Either way, he will be satisfied, for he does not wish _me_ to retain control of your potential power either."

"Is he afraid you want to replace him as Master of London?"

Simon shook his head. "That has never been my intention, nor my desire."

"That's not what I asked."

This time, he actually heard the sigh that passed the vampire's thin lips. "Yes, he probably assumes this to be true. We have for centuries merely only tolerated one another's presence, but as long as I have made no overt moves to threaten his power, he and I could co-exist." He glanced over at Asher. "This détente no longer exists, now that you have become . . . what you are to me." 

Shaking his head, Asher said, "Simon, if you continue to treat me as your fledgling, Grippen won't allow either one of us live."

"I care not what he will allow," Simon said coldly. "I will not tolerate _anyone_ attempting to take you from me, James. If Lionel is not yet aware of that fact, he soon will have cause to learn." The vampire's eyes hardened dangerously. "In any case, he will rue the day he threatened you, or yours. _Digo más verdad que el Evangelio._ 1"

The vampire's voice did not alter one iota in its usual tone or volume, but knowing that Simon had been a devout Catholic in his mortal life, hearing him blaspheme in such a manner made Asher feel almost sorry for the Master of London.

_Almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 \- "I say more truth than the Gospel."


	3. Chapter 3

They took a cab from Paddington station to the far western outskirts of the St. James's district, a once fashionable area of old Georgian second rate townhouses, now falling slightly into an aura of neglect. The rows of tall, narrow houses were mostly dark and silent as they passed, and Asher couldn't help but wonder how many might shelter one of the Undead. 

He and Lydia had purposely done nothing further to uncover the new haunts of the London vampires since the death of Dennis Blaydon, acutely aware of Simon's cautions against bringing themselves to the unwanted attention of Grippen and his get.

However, Asher was not surprised that Simon knew exactly where to find the Master of London, and he only hoped that Lydia was also somewhere on the premises and not hidden away in another one of the vampire's properties, for other properties he surely must have.

Simon had the cab drop them off at the head of a narrow street that dead-ended in a courtyard. As they walked along the ill-lit pavement, Asher could see that many of the old buildings had an adjoining narrow alley that indicated the likely presence of mews at the rear of the house. 

This was also true of the soot-stricken, brick-faced building at which Simon paused. Many of its narrow windows had already been bricked up, evidently in an effort to avoid the old window tax, but even the ornate fanlight above the front door had been either covered or painted over.

Asher gazed longingly at the grimy alley alongside, but he guessed that an attempt at accessing the building from the rear scullery or kitchen entrance would be futile even before Simon said quietly, "He knows we are here, of course."

In a way, Asher was relieved. He had no desire to delay a confrontation, and he'd prefer to resolve matters with Grippen tonight.

One way or the other.

"Can you tell if Lydia is here?"

The vampire tilted his head slightly, then said, "There is a human heartbeat, but whether it is your lady wife or not, I cannot discern." He looked up at him apologetically. "I cannot sense her waking consciousness as I do yours, but I would be surprised if he did not hold her here. He will be . . . overconfident of the outcome." 

"We can only hope." Asher returned Simon's gaze with a forbidding expression. "Just so you don't make that same mistake, Simon."

The vampire seemed somewhat surprised at this, but he gave Asher a short bow in response. "I hear and obey," he replied, only partially mocking. "She will likely be in the basement, probably the larder or one of the storage rooms that can be easily locked."

Asher nodded. He had assumed as much himself. "Do you have a plan?"

"My only priority tonight is to rescue your lady wife, although we hardly hold the element of surprise, James." He peered up at the three-story house, his fangs glinting in the faint light. "However, to our favor, I do not believe he will risk having one of his fledglings nearby tonight, as he would not wish to chance that someone other than himself would take you as their own."

Sighing, Asher said, "So, we just knock on the door and wait for him to take our coats and hats?"

"Something like that," Simon said, a faint smile on his lips, but then he narrowed his eyes forbiddingly. "Stay behind me at all times, James. If you can manage to free your wife, leave at once and do not wait for me. If I am able, I will follow."

Asher looked at him sharply. "That sounds rather ominous. I'm just supposed to leave you to confront him alone?"

"Yes," the vampire replied, and there was absolutely no compromise in his tone. He then turned without waiting for a reply and led the way past the wrought iron railing and up the two stone steps to the door. The door was not locked or barred in any manner, which only told Asher that they had indeed been expected. No vampire would make access to their abode so easy to humans who might bear ill intent.

The entrance hall was already lit by an oil lamp sconce that flickered against the peeling, yellowed wallpaper that clung to the once grand hall. 

Not surprisingly, no one greeted them, nor took their coats.

Asher could barely make out the servant's staircase at the far end of the long, narrow hallway. He did not require his agent's intuition to know that danger lurked here, and he eyed the shadowy length of corridor with dread. They had just started down the hallway, however, when Grippen soundlessly appeared from an open doorway on the right. 

He had obviously recently fed, as his face was suffused with the ruddy coloring that made Simon's usual bleached appearance seem even more pale. 

Grippen ignored the other vampire and spoke over his head to Asher. "I knew takin' that comely wisp of a girl would bring you runnin' like a cur."

Asher put on his most bland expression and said, "Have you hurt her?"

"An' why would I do that? Plenty of time for such a thing after I've taken what I want."

"What you want to take, I'm not in any way prepared to give."

The vampire grinned at him. "Indeed? Mayhap you'll not be sayin' the same once you feel your heart slow to a stop."

Simon stepped forward, forcing the larger vampire's eyes onto him. "He would never give his consciousness over to you, Lionel. He would merely die a mortal's death, and you would be holding a lifeless corpse in your arms." He stepped closer to Grippen, his voice as chill as snow on the Russian steppes. "At which point, you would follow him into a permanent death, I assure you." 

Grippen turned his attention to Simon, his eyes cold. "So, you _are_ threatenin' me, you Papist dago bastard. I've always known you coveted my power as Master of London."

Simon shook his head. "Which only confirms that, even after 250 years, you know me not at all. I have never desired to be Master, but I will _not_ allow you to take the life of this one, nor the woman who is dear to him."

"You did not have my leave to create a fledgling, Spaniard," Grippen practically spat.

"Nor did I, as even one such as _you_ should clearly be able to discern."

Grippen snarled at the insult. 

Asher saw neither of them move, but suddenly they were grappling together as if they'd been locked in such a skirmish for eons. He saw no way that the smaller, slighter Simon could possibly prevail against the immense bulk that was Lionel Grippen, but somehow Simon managed to heave the larger vampire into the room from which he had first emerged.

He knew Simon was giving him an opportunity, and also that he had very little time. After his long association with the eerily silent vampires, it was disconcerting to hear the sounds of fists impacting pseudoflesh as well as the din of splintering furniture, but he didn't hesitate as he ran past the pitch-black room with its struggling occupants toward the narrow stairway to the basement beyond. 

The stairwell itself was unlit, but as he stumbled down the last few steps he could see that at least some source of light was originating from the bottom floor. 

The source of the light was a single brass oil lamp, which was sitting on a low, lopsided table just outside the stairwell. The lamp was apparently burning kerosene instead of oil, given its signature noisome reek. Asher hastily grabbed the lamp by its base as he passed. 

"Lydia!" he called, turning right down the dingy center hallway and sticking his head into a series of what appeared to be empty pantries or servants' quarters. 

However, all the rooms in this end of the basement were covered in years of dust and neglect, and even given the diffuse light of the oil lamp, he could tell no one had passed this way in decades.

Cursing, he turned back in the other direction, again calling out his wife's name, and this time he heard a faint reply from the direction of what might be the kitchen. He passed the washroom and the cistern with its distinctive rhythmic patter of dripping water still accumulating within its murky depths. He tried the doors of what might be wine or ale storage rooms, but none of them were locked, and he raced further down the passageway toward the rear of the house.

As he finally reached the large, echoing expanse of the kitchen area, he again yelled, "Lydia!" This time he heard her answering shout much clearer, and as he circumvented the bulk of an ancient coal burning stove, he found a barred door that was evidently the larder. 

He hastily threw the wooden bar aside. The door was of course locked, but while it was made of stout oak, it was as aged and decrepit as the rest of the house and didn't hold against his desperate determination as he slammed into it with his shoulder.

Lydia had wisely stepped away from the door, but she rushed into his arms even before the echo of its timbers slamming into the stone wall behind had subsided. She clung to him only briefly, however, not given to the hysterics that many women would have expressed given these extremely trying circumstances. 

"Grippen?" she asked breathlessly, as he pulled her along with him through the kitchen toward what he hoped would be a servants' door into the mews beyond. 

"Don Simon is . . . distracting him." 

The door to the mews was indeed there and thankfully not barred, so Asher left the noxious oil lamp on the floor, and they exited into the harsh bitterness of the night air. 

Asher quickly removed his topcoat and wrapped it around his wife's shoulders, as she wore nothing but a lacy, low-necked evening dress. Evidently, Grippen had absconded with her after she had dressed for the opera or some other social gayety. They ran together down the debris-strewn alley into the courtyard and then back toward the main street beyond. 

Bringing them both abruptly to a halt, Asher removed the lead-lined case from his valise and then pressed the valise into her hands. 

"Here, there's some money in this. You should be able to find a cab at the crossroads. Go directly to your aunt's house and don't leave under any circumstances. I'll meet you there."

"Jamie, where . . .?"

"Just go, Lydia. I can't leave him to deal with Grippen alone."

Thankfully, even though he saw the concern and fear on her face, she knew better than to tie him up in endless protestations and reasons why he shouldn't take care of her instead. For this, and many other reasons, he'd been blessed to have won her love what felt like a lifetime ago. He kissed her quickly on the lips, made sure she had reached the crossroads and the relative protection of its crowds, and then turned and ran back toward Grippen's townhouse.

Skidding to a stop at the front door, he opened the case, took a deep breath and pulled the silver letter opener from within. Although wearing leather gloves, he could feel something akin to heat as he gripped the silver, as if he had placed his hand too near a fire, but it didn't feel as if it were actually burning his skin. 

_Yet._

He turned and walked up the steps to the door. Knowing this was likely the most foolish thing he'd ever done in a long list of them, he nevertheless couldn't allow Simon to risk an encounter with the Master of London alone. Besides, if he failed, he would eventually have to confront Grippen again, and then _without_ the aid of Simon's immense strength and centuries of experience.

And he knew quite well what the outcome of _that_ encounter would be.

Asher opened the door, listening intently, but he could no longer hear anything of the titanic struggle that had been taking place before he'd rescued Lydia. He walked as silently as he could down the passageway, trying to keep toward the wall to avoid creaking floor boards, but he knew there was no way any of this would possibly fool a vampire's keen senses. 

Slowing as he passed the open maw of a dumbwaiter and the doorway that probably led to a servery just beyond it, he listened again for any sounds of movement within the hall. Shaking his head, he hurried past the open door, knowing that anything could be lurking in the darkness within. 

He was pondering whether to check the upper floors or chance the gardens next to the mews when a pair of massive hands grabbed his shoulder and flung him like a child's doll against the far wall. 

Crumpling to the floor with the force of the blow, he tried nonetheless to bring his hand up to strike with the knife, but Grippen merely gripped his forearm and slammed it backwards into the wall. Hearing bones crack, Asher dropped the knife with a brief shout of agony, but Grippen released his arm suddenly and stepped back, evidently attempting to avoid any chance of contact with the silver as it fell.

The vampire was obviously injured, his face beaten bloody and raw. As Asher attempted to roll away, Grippen was atypically slow to react, although still faster than any mortal could hope to match. He was limping badly as he took the few steps needed to reach Asher, but Grippen hauled him up effortlessly and pinned him against the wall.

Holding him immobile with one hand, Grippen leaned down toward him until Asher could smell his fetid breath and the cloying scent of blood, at least some of it the vampire's own. "The more fool you be, comin' back here, but it saves me the effort of trackin' you down once more. Slippery little thing, you are."

Trying to calm his rapidly rising panic, Asher said, "Simon?"

His eyes narrowing in outraged anger, Grippen slammed him once more against the wall, the back of his head rebounding solidly against it, and Asher's vision dimmed dangerously.

"I'll not hear that cursed Spaniard's name pass yer lips no more, Jimmy. Yer _mine_ now, or will be soon 'nough," Grippen snarled into his face. "In any case, he'll not be able to help you now."

Was Simon truly dead then? And how did a vampire kill another vampire anyway? He couldn't use silver or whitethorn or any of the usual methods of destroying a vampire permanently. And Grippen had no mortal agents here to assist him with handling those toxic materials. 

Asher hoped this meant the wily Simon had managed to escape somehow, but regardless, it would likely not alter Asher's own fate one iota. 

With his own sensitivity to silver, Asher no longer wore the protective silver chains around his throat and wrists, so there were no obstacles to prevent the vampire from carrying out his threat.

He barely had time to close his eyes and regret what his death would do to Lydia before he felt the cold lips against his neck, although he only vaguely felt the sharp sting of fangs as they tore into the large vein.

Never one to give up, Asher struggled against the vampire's hold, attempting to wrench away from that obscenely intimate grasp on his neck, but it was like attempting to move a stone wall. As Grippen drank, Asher very quickly felt his vision fade and his limbs become leaden, as they had once before when he had been nearly bled to death by the vampires of Paris. 

Just before he could pass into unconsciousness, Grippen released his neck, slashed his own wrist with his fangs and held the oozing wound to Asher's lips. 

With his last bit of strength and will, Asher kept his mouth firmly closed, finding the wherewithal somehow to glare up into the vampire's eyes in furious denial.

Shaking his head, Grippen said, "As you will. You'd've made a goodly vampire, that you would, an' I think we both know it. But if you'll not consent to bein' my fledgling, 'fore God, I'll make sure no one else can have you neither." 

Grippen lowered his mouth again to bleed him dry, and in his terror and misery, Asher called out mentally to the one who had once before held his consciousness in safekeeping, who had nurtured a portion of his soul. He didn't expect an answer, as he feared Simon was truly incapable of responding, but it was a dying man's instinctual need for solace as he sank irrevocably into oblivion.

Before Grippen could finish what he'd started, however, Asher heard an outraged, deep-voiced growl almost like a wounded lion's, and Grippen was yanked backwards and unto the floor, entangled now with an equally battered but insanely furious Don Simon Ysidro.

Without Grippen's hold, Asher slid slowly down the wall onto the floor. He prayed that Simon would emerge the victor, but even with the narrowed vision brought on by blood loss, Asher could see that the dreadfully injured Simon would lose this battle against the much larger Grippen. 

Determination and ferocity would only carry Simon so far.

Therefore, with his remaining waning strength, Asher crawled alongside the wall until the fingertips of his uninjured hand brushed against the silver knife abandoned on the floor. He was glad now for the faint feeling of warmth the knife imparted, because he wasn't certain he'd have detected it with his gloved hand otherwise — all his senses had become so horribly dim and distant.

Asher found he could go no further, however. He could barely feel his limbs at all, and he knew if he attempted to move again, he'd have no strength remaining to wield the knife, should such an opportunity arise.

He could feel his awareness of his surroundings slowly fade, and he gripped the knife harder, hoping the intensifying heat would forestall his inevitable slide into unconsciousness.

Asher had almost given up hope, but then the frenzy of the vampires' struggle brought them just close enough. With the very last of his waning strength, Asher plunged the silver knife into Grippen's back, directly below the eighth rib and thrusting upward into his chest cavity. He was so terribly weak he doubted he'd pierced Grippen's heart, but regardless, the silver alone should incapacitate him long enough for Simon to prevail.

He would likely never know the outcome, however.

Asher fell back against the wall, his chin dropping to his chest, and he couldn't find the strength to even lift his head. The sounds of the vampires' conflict seemed to have rescinded, but he wasn't certain if this was real or merely the continued slow fading of his remaining senses.

As he slipped further toward the embrace of what was likely death, he felt cold, slim hands upon his face, lifting his chin. He looked up into the amber eyes of Don Simon Ysidro and tried to murmur his farewell, but he couldn't seem to even form the words. 

Asher closed his eyes.

He heard a stricken, "James!" before he experienced once more the sensation of oozing blood pressed against his lips.

Weakly, he turned his head away, but the vampire followed his miniscule movement, relentless and insistent. 

"Please, drink of my blood, James. I promise not to bring you across to the vampire state, but my blood could save your life. Your _mortal_ life!"

He could not take that chance. He dared not take that chance, and he therefore shook his head.

 _"Por favor_ , if not for me, then for your lady wife. Would you leave her alone if you had any choice?"

Lydia would understand. She would grieve, but she would understand. 

Asher could feel little now but a sensation of falling into an endless abyss, so he might have imagined the press of cold, thin lips upon his brow. As he descended even further into this endless void, however, he felt a swelling presence within his mind, a presence that wrapped itself around his consciousness like a lover's embrace.

He basked contentedly within its grasp, both familiar and comforting, knowing that at least now he need not die alone.

"James, I promise you, I will kill you myself should you become a vampire against your will. Do not fear this, as I swear it upon what remains of my immortal soul." 

Asher could almost _feel_ the shape of those words inside his mind, so closely had Simon intertwined his consciousness with his. In Asher's weakened state, it was nigh on intoxicating. How had he ever thought the vampire's speech to be _toneless_ when it reverberated now with such astonishing fervor and passion?

 _"Mi alma"_ ,2 please, you must drink of my blood now and _trust_." 

Asher had spent literally decades as an agent knowing that to trust another was to endanger his current mission, and his life. Until he had met Lydia, he had ruthlessly resisted the urge to give _anyone_ that much power over him. And he certainly had little cause to trust this ageless hunter who consumed others' lives merely to preserve his own.

Yet, against all conceivable odds, he _did_ trust this former Spanish courtier with the blood of thousands on his hands. He trusted him with his life . . . and quite possibly his death.

He drank.

*****************************************

When Asher finally awoke, he found himself once again in the study of the building that housed Simon's artwork repository. 

Other than the fact that he had awakened at all, he was not terribly surprised.

He opened his eyes to mere slits, watched the rise and fall of his own chest, heard the sound of his own still beating heart, and breathed shallowly of the air that he still needed to survive. His right arm was splinted and bandaged, and his body felt weak and battered, as if he'd been thrown against a reef and pounded by a furious storm, but at least he was still mortal.

Simon had not lied to him, after all.

Yet, he _had_ drunk once again of the vampire's blood, so he did not know what additional changes, if any, would result from this re-exposure.

At what point, he wondered, would his flesh finally react as a vampire's and burst into flame, consuming his body until nothing remained but tiny bits of bone and ashes when he stepped blithely into the sunlight? Even Simon knew little of Asher's unique transitional state, lingering somewhere between mortal and vampire and not existing exclusively in either world.

He closed his eyes tightly, dreading the moment when he must eventually _try_. If not for his own sake, then for Lydia's.

Asher was still pondering this when Simon finally materialized by his side, although he had not heard the vampire enter. He could simply _feel_ his presence without the necessity of opening his eyes. 

He thought he could also detect Simon's relief and pleasure that Asher was awake, but perhaps _that_ perception was merely his overactive imagination.

"How long have I been unconscious?" Asher said, instead of the question he really wanted to ask.

He heard Simon pull a chair closer to the settee upon which he lay. "Two days," was the quiet reply. "Your lady wife is well and still resides in London at her relative's house. I have called upon her in person to reassure her of your condition."

"I'm surprised she didn't demand to see me, regardless of your assurance."

There was a brief but very discernible pause. 

Simon finally said, "She did, of course, but I . . . refused."

Asher opened his eyes, glancing up at him curiously. The vampire's visage bore few remnants of his confrontation with Grippen, but then, he knew just how quickly a vampire could heal when neither silver nor the light of day were involved. 

"Simon, surely you can trust her with at least _some_ of your secrets. She has kept her own counsel on your kind's existence until this time, and I trust her with my life."

"It is not that I do not _trust_ her, James." 

Simon reached over to a nearby table and handed Asher a flagon of what apparently contained some type of broth. However, when Asher still found his hand shaking too much to hold it properly, the vampire covered his hand with his own, helping him to drink. 

Asher nodded his thanks when he had finished, but the vampire seemed oddly reluctant to release him, as if absorbing the warmth of Asher's hand into his. He finally took the empty flagon and set it aside.

"Then why, Simon?"

Again, Simon paused, as if he had to choose his words with some particular care. "I bear your lady no ill will. In fact, I shall endeavor to protect her with my life, now that I have seen how your love for her endured even beyond the very threshold of death." He looked directly into Asher's eyes and said, "But know this, James. I have told you before how possessive a master vampire can be toward one of his own, and there will be times when I simply _cannot_ share you with her."

"And this is one of those times."

"Yes," Simon said firmly. 

Asher sighed. "I was afraid there would be repercussions from drinking your blood."

The vampire tilted his head slightly. "In what way?"

"If your instincts have changed that much toward me, I've taken one step closer to becoming your actual fledgling."

Simon did not reply immediately, and Asher could almost feel his reluctance to say anything further. "The future is unknown to me," he finally said, "but my excessive possessiveness toward you has not changed, for I have experienced this to some degree almost from the moment we met." He looked away, and his next words were so soft that Asher again might have imagined them. "And I have told you before how a vampire tends to hoard precious things."

Shocked, Asher could only stare at Simon, who looked so incredibly young but apparently bore more than just the passage of centuries on his slim shoulders.

Simon stood suddenly, as if unable to bear Asher's scrutiny any longer, and he said, "I have brought you fresh clothing, as your previous attire was either ruined beyond redemption or carried the remnants of Lionel's attempted claiming of you, which I found I could not tolerate."

"Is he . . .?"

"Lionel is dead . . . permanently," Simon said, and his eyes seemed to glow with a banked ferocity Asher had rarely encountered in him before. "You are safe from him now, but it seems I am the Master of London by default."

"And his fledglings?"

Simon looked over at him. "Also dead. As they were not of my begetting, I had no control over them, and thus I could not risk them coming after you." He must have noted the alarm in Asher's eyes, because he added, "I have left the Ernchesters alone. I owe the Lady Ernchester a debt, as she has protected you from Lionel in the past, and she cares too much for her own 'aging' husband to challenge me." 

He seemed to ponder this briefly, then said, "Although I believe she would not have challenged, even so. Like me, she cares naught for the power struggles of the Undead."

Asher shouldn't have felt comforted upon hearing this information, since the Lady Anthea was first and foremost a killer, just as Simon was, but it was as much her obvious devotion to her husband as her protection of Asher that made him feel relief regardless. Unlike most of the vampires he'd met, she still displayed some vestiges of humanity beyond the flat impassivity of her eyes.

Much like the vampire currently standing silently in front of him.

"How long must I remain here, Simon?"

"It is nearly sunrise. Rest, and if you are feeling stronger by this evening, I will reunite you with your lady wife." He paused. "I have a feeling you will recover far more quickly than after your last experience in Paris."

So, Simon also assumed some additional change had come from his recent contact with the vampire's blood, regardless of the fact that Asher was still outwardly mortal. 

Sighing, Asher said, "I'll wait for you."

Simon merely nodded.

Asher closed his eyes wearily, and he belatedly realized that the vampire didn't actually require his agreement. Simon need only _compel_ him to remain, as he had done while Asher was in Oxford for so many months. 

Still, Asher guessed that if he wanted to leave Simon's abode and return immediately to Lydia, the vampire wouldn't stop him.

Simon knew all too well that trust had to work both ways.

Asher heard the door shut quietly, but just before he drifted off toward sleep, he felt Simon's mind in his, as if the vampire required this continued assurance of Asher's well-being. 

He wasn't surprised. He needed that reassurance himself.

*****************************************

When he awoke again, Asher felt much improved, and as he rose from the settee and dressed in the clothes Simon had provided, he noted that the vampire had again left him a cold meal to break his fast. 

Afterwards, he pulled his watch from his pocket and noted the time. Assuming he hadn't slept the clock around again, it was approaching dusk, and he thought now was as good a time as any to see if his condition had indeed progressed to where he could no longer tolerate the light of day.

Leaving the study, he walked down the hallway toward the entranceway and its ornately carved barrier to the outside world. He hesitated when he approached the threshold, however. If there were indeed any untoward consequences resulting from his latest exposure to the blood of a 350-year old vampire, he didn't want the whole of London to witness it.

Therefore, he turned around and headed back toward the door to Simon's gallery. Unless Simon had covered the small windows in its high walls since Asher was here last, they should admit just enough daylight for Asher to know for sure. 

He descended the stairs into the basement room and then walked slowly amongst its vast collection of paintings, stopping now and again to reacquaint himself with the impressive fruits of Simon's labors over the past two and a half centuries.

But he knew he dared not procrastinate too long. 

As he approached the door to Simon's studio, he saw that a shaft of light from the setting sun had indeed found its way through a tiny window high on the west wall. He approached this beam of light cautiously, as he would an exceptionally dangerous opponent, and he stopped just before he'd venture into its domain.

Asher happened to glance upward then, and he was stunned to note that a new portrait had joined those of the young men he had seen hanging there previously. 

He recognized the subject of this particular portrait, of course. The skill and precision of the artist were such that Asher could have been gazing at a mirror instead of his mere likeness immortalized in oils and canvas. 

However, he was even more astonished by the painting's vivid background of intense twilight hues. Evidently, Simon's claim that he'd yet to find a suitable subject to complement this most precious memory of his mortality was not entirely true.

Or, at least, it was true no longer.

Asher stared, mesmerized. He had obviously underestimated the depth of Simon's affection for him. The vampire revealed little of his innermost self in words, but Asher knew this painstakingly rendered portrait spoke more eloquently than the most gifted courtier, and it would continue to do so through the slowly unfolding centuries, as no doubt Simon had intended.

Knowing how much Simon disliked displays of emotion, Asher realized this painting was more achingly intimate than mere words could ever hope to equal.

Given this unmistakable display of courage on Simon's part, Asher knew he could do no less.

Therefore, keeping his gaze focused on the portrait as if it were some sort of magic talisman, Asher took that last irrevocable step into the twilight that beckoned like a hearth fire on a cold winter's night — a fire that could either succor or singe. 

When he felt the faint warmth of the sun's pale winter rays on his upturned face and nothing more, he shook his head in mild bemusement at his previous rampaging fears. 

Evidently, he would continue living as a mortal in this twilight world of his, at least for now. Perhaps, for longer than he truly cared to contemplate.

But he knew he wouldn't be alone. _Never_ alone.

For he had witnessed eternity through the eyes of a vampire who passionately safeguarded a portion of Asher's soul.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 \- "My soul"


End file.
